


Nothing Gold Can Stay

by A_Beautiful_Beast



Series: Nature's First Green Is Gold [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Amputation, Angst, Dark, Gen, Inspired by Poetry, Loss of Limbs, Pre-Series, Self-Harm, Self-Loathing, Self-Mutilation, Sorry Not Sorry, Unhappy Ending, Wingfic, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000, dark!Gabriel, feelings of worthlessness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-01
Updated: 2014-02-01
Packaged: 2018-01-10 18:03:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1162830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Beautiful_Beast/pseuds/A_Beautiful_Beast
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>So Eden sank to grief/So dawn goes down to day/Nothing gold can stay.</em>
</p><p>Wherein Gabriel hits rock bottom and there's no one there to save him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nothing Gold Can Stay

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from Robert Frost's poem of the same name.
> 
> Whoops I angsted.
> 
> Very strong warnings for self-mutilation/harm, self-hatred/loathing and just general feelings of worthlessness toward oneself. I'm only going to say it once: this is dark, it doesn't end happily, and I might be a bit of a sadist.
> 
> It's also very run-on-y and fast-paced, which is intentional. I was basically just screwing around with different styles and this happened. 
> 
> AKA Gabriel's my bby and I like to see my bbys in pain, because that's how I roll.

_Coward._

The word's a drumbeat in his ears, a steady  _thumpity-thump_  that matches his stumbling footsteps and the beat of his vessel's heart. He falls to his knees beside a pool of still water in the middle of nowhere, tall oak and pine trees that have nothing on his true form stretching to touch the low-hanging clouds that drift lazily across the nighttime sky.

He doesn't know what's going on, what to do, why he feels so awful, so dirty and ruined and  _broken_ into fragments smaller than the atoms that make up this weird little universe. It's too much, the fighting and the violence and the emotions and—

He just wants it all to  _stop._

An owl hoots somewhere above his head and Gabriel smites it immediately and without a second thought, his grace pulsing and ebbing and flowing and lashing out at anything that dares to disturb him, angry and violent and everything an angel  _shouldn't_  be.

Suddenly there's a silver blade in his right hand, glistening with the cloud-muted moonlight that filters through the overcast sky and leaves of trees. The blade hums softly in his hand, feeling intimately familiar, safe and  _warm,_  despite being a formation of his own tarnished, battered grace.

His wings wink into existence instinctively, golden feathers arranging themselves neatly on top of each other, the barely shifting water in front of him reflecting the bright, lustrous appendages.

They don't look right; they're  _too_  bright, standing out like white on a dirt rug or something; irregular and too bright and too pure and too remnant of his old life, the one where everything was okay even when it didn't seem like it, so he tightens his grip on the blade with one hand and grabs a wing with the other, barely thinking as he begins to slice through the bone.

He's never been a masochist, but the pain almost feels  _good,_ like penance for his cowardice and idiocy. He knows he'll never make up for what he's done, but as the silver saws through the bone and a sick feeling begins to bubble in his stomach, he nearly grins. Every time he rocks back and forth with the knife he can feel it, intimately, as the blade tries to separate the angel from the monster, as chunks of half-diced flesh fall to the ground unceremoniously because he's never been a precise person, as the world begins to grow dark around the edges from blinding pain that rips through his body and grace.

When the wing finally falls limply to the ground, Gabriel crumpling and falling after it, he laughs through the pain.

It's mad, twisted and dark and he probably needs seventy-two thousand different kinds of mental help, but as his mind screams at him to stop, stop,  _stop_ because _that fucking hurts and what are you doing you can't just cut off your own wings you idiot_ he just can't bring himself to care. Liquid fire scorches a path through every nerve, electrifying his body as his mouth moves to form inhuman screams that can in no way convey the feeling that drips from every pore, the cocoon of raw pain that he's wrapped around himself.

He's a spider caught in his own web; wet, salty,  _human_ tears falling from his eyes and running into the pool as he reaches for another wing. Sobs and insane bits of laughter force themselves from his throat, dry and tortured and ruined and broken because that's all he is; a collection of jagged pieces that've never fit together the way they should. He rips the wing from its base when he's three-quarters through, a few golden feathers slipping into the shallow waters.

Their beauty angers him; he's never deserved any of that, he's never deserved this beauty because he's  _him_ , cowardly and weak and stupid enough to think that things would ever turn out all right. Now he's mutilating himself, tearing off the beautiful parts and wondering what's worse: to disfigure the beauty you have but don't have a right to, or to carry on wearing it when you can never be worthy.

As he strains to reach the final wing on his right side, the pain begins to completely overtake the adrenaline coursing through his system and he nearly face-plants into the small pool, his hands stretching out at the last second to break his fall. He splashes ungracefully into the water, small beads of liquid flying through the air only to land on the spaces where two of his wings once were. The agony that rips through him is enough to turn his vision black.

When the world comes back into view he doesn't hesitate before starting on the other four wings, whimpering feebly as he pushes himself back to his knees.

He doesn't hold back any of the screams; he lets them tear themselves from his lips like a symphony gone wrong, almost relishing in the sound of his pain because this _,_ _this_ is what he deserves and absolutely nothing less.

It suddenly hits him that he's pathetic as hell and he bears down harder on the bloodstained blade in his hand.  _What kind of angel cuts off his own wings? What kind of_ archangel  _is so fucking pathetic that he can't handle a little bit of fighting and runs away, like a coward? What kind of angel are you, to run from your very purpose?_

And of course, the only answer is that he isn't an angel at all. He's nothing. He's worse than a demon, because at least demons acknowledge that they're absolute pieces of shit.  _Monster_ seems apt, until he remembers that many monsters don't have a say in their being monsters.

_Abomination._

The word echoes around his skull as he severs the fifth wing with an especially shrill wail.

Another hoarse sob shakes his shoulders and he runs a tender hand through his last wing, reveling in the way the downy feathers feel, silky and glossy and almost fluffy.

He doesn't deserve that, though, so the once-gentle touch turns to a steel grip as he saws at the last bone separating him from freedom. The blade makes a noise like a saw through wood, all edges and hollowness, a noise that cannot be heard over the archangel's desperate cries.

Breaking through the final bone, feeling the limb go limp in his hand and the sudden feeling of disconnect from his mind to his wing is paralyzing. He knots his fingers in the feathers, tugging experimentally and moaning in horror when he can't feel the tug in his mind. The inane high he had before is gone, only emptiness to be found in its wake.

After a few quiet moments, the silence broken by only the throaty sobs he makes, Gabriel attempts to steady himself. Using his last bits of strength, he gathers his wings into a pile, the dazzling gold feathers stained with blood. He runs his hands through each of them once more, ignoring the tears that stream down his face.

He takes one final look at them, squeezes his eyes shut and allows fire to blossom at his fingertips.

His eyes don't open until he's sure they're gone, nothing but dust and ashes to be swept away in the wind. Then he wobbles to his feet, pointedly ignoring the six bloody shanks of hacked-at flesh that protrude from his back, snaps his fingers shakily and disappears, thanking anyone but his Father for having powers that allow him to do so.

Silence settles over this place in the middle of nowhere.

A bird chirps, shattering it.


End file.
